


A Lesson in the Woods

by MemoryCrow



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, Magic, Shameless Smut, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 07:34:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8569768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: As tagged, shameless smut. One day I'll write something grown-up and contemporary, but today was not that day.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Post election, it has been a long several days of watching evil take human form in my co-workers. Rumpel is my stress relief; a fall-back, nameless, magical forest location is where I hide out.

Rumpelstiltskin walked with a cane, its pommel a pewter crow that curved to the palm of his hand. His limp was very slight, but sometimes Belle saw that he leaned heavily on the cane, as though his bones had had enough.

Yet for all, he was jovial in a peculiar way. As he walked, he sometimes lifted the cane, using it as a pointer.

"Yellow rumped warbler." he declared, pointing, and Belle looked just in time to see a flash of brownish-bluish wing, bright yellow at the flash.

_Cardinal, devil's snare; cat bird, dog rose._

Rumpelstiltskin had an eye for the natural world, Belle's province, just as he had a nose for the magical. There, she was only a tourist.

"Hemlock." he said, and handed her a tiny cone. "Very potent, indeed. A friend to a girl such as yourself, dearie"

"What do you mean by that?" Belle asked. She studied the little cone, and ordinary specimen of the woods, then put it her pocket with the other ordinary specimens; feathers, acorns, stones... an empty egg and an abandoned wasp's nest, like a paper catacombs.

"A girl such as yourself." Rumpelstiltskin repeated, raising a sardonic eyebrow. "A girl who is an old woman on the inside, but pretends at girlish things."

Belle felt affronted. Rumpelstiltskin said, "Hemlock is a tree for old women. Usually the conifers are sympathetic to the male of a given species, but the hemlock is a crone. She'll steer you true."

"I'm not an old woman." Belle grumbled. "Certainly not a crone."

Rumpelstiltskin laughed and pointed his cane at her, a sort of punch, emphatic.

"Aye, dearie." he said. "That you are."

Belle followed Rumpelstiltskin's path without comment, wondering why. It was _he_ who was old, or becoming so, anyway. His sideburns were silver-white, a few strands of the unearthly color streaking his chestnut hair. His face was like an old witch, she thought, unkindly. Gaunt and thin lipped and long in the nose. His dark, almond shaped eyes were so heavy-lidded, viewing the world with a sense of secrecy, even invisibility, from beneath straight and thoughtful brows.

And though they trekked through rough terrain, vines and branches reaching to snag Belle's hair and skirt, he was dressed to the nines. An older gentleman's wardrobe and ways, she thought. Fitted, dark jacket, a crisp edge of a kerchief in the breast pocket; waistcoat of some rich fabric, tooled leather boots that shone beneath the dandy's edge of his trousers... And that cane.

He went hatless, and his hair was a bit ragged and long, curling at his nape, bangs too long to be called bangs... They fell in wings at the sides of his face, to be continually pushed back by a bony, long-fingered hand.

In small ways, his magical nature was revealed. He was not exactly a wizard, like the great mages of the mountains with their fireworks and prophesies; their strategy in war and manipulation of bloodlines... to say nothing of the saddling of dragons.

He was more of a witch, as his face implied. A quiet, country witch; a retired, gentleman witch, showing Belle a story in her tea leaves and rounding the fingertip of one long finger over the lines of her palm. Giving her cones and calling her a crone. She was not sure why she spent time with him.

She could learn more of magic from her Aunts, when it came to it. Her father's sisters, awash in pastel corsets and brightly colored stockings, whose house cleaned itself. One broom transformed into a handsome and obliging man who saw to all of their needs. Should he become a nuisance, he was easily _Poofed_ back into a perfectly sensible broom, until such a time as he was once more required in manhood. Submissive thing, and yet he protected the Aunts from any threat.

Now _that's_ magic, Belle thought, though it disgusted her father. She could live in their charmed house, wear their eyelet and lace frills and learn their ways. But, no. She followed Rumpelstiltskin around like a grumpy puppy, not knowing why.

In fact, she did other things, not knowing why. Not understanding her loyalty. His house didn't clean itself; _she_ cleaned it. His eggs didn't hop delicately from a wooden bowl to crack themselves open over a hot skillet. Belle cooked his meals and tended his garden, under his instructing eye and pointing cane. _I'm a chump_ , she found herself thinking with regularity. And yet she felt dogged by the notion that she was _on to something._ Something bolder than the confectionary world that her Aunts maintained. Something more than love potions and pretty slippers, dancing princesses and girls who marry princes, trapped within bearskins.

There was something bloody in her desire. She tried to pretend it away, but it was always there. Like a shadow-self, always partly concealed; it stared back at her with pools for eyes. Her visions were of deeply red, poisoned apples. Girls who were one-armed, the other limb being a swan's wing or a limb of twigs. Girls with no arms, propelled by magical shoes. Disguised, subversive women, spoken to by severed, animal heads. Shifting women, turning painfully inside-out to become crows, wolves, owls.

Where these visions came from, why they persisted Belle didn't know. The darkness nagged at her. She never desired to harm anyone or do violence, and still the shadow-side stuck close to her, dismissive of her Aunts, loyal to Rumpelstiltskin. It was a believer in blood.

She'd met him, properly, when she'd languished for a boy; a pretty, selkie-like boy with large, black eyes and coal black hair, who'd kissed her once and then seemed to forget her. He was friendly when she spoke to him, but never again brought his mouth to hers, meeting her eyes with such arresting intimacy.

Rumpelstiltskin found her on a wooden bench in the dark, outside of the tavern where the boy's eyes slid over her, never acknowledging that she'd tasted the sea on his tongue; a wild, salty wind on his skin; an iodine and mineral coldness on his fingertips.

"Whatever is the matter, dearie?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, though Belle was not exactly sad or crying. She'd been thinking, trying to figure it out.

She saw Rumpelstiltskin as a harmless, middle-aged man, perhaps a peer of her father's, on the brink of tripping over into old age. Candid, she said, "The man I love seems to have forgotten me. It's as if we never were, except I still feel it. I don't know what to do."

" _Oh, ho_." Rumpelstiltskin said. He sat down next to her, both hands propped on the crow that topped the cane, his hurt leg stretched out straight, before him. Belle became aware of a faint, ghost scent of something like nutmeg. Or... strong spirits? A sweet tobacco?

"And who is this great love, then?" he asked.

Something in his tone made her feel embarrassed, her earlier statement taking on a childish echo in her mind, especially for her years. Still, she answered, "Him, inside, who is called 'Brian'. Black haired and black eyed."

Rumpelstiltskin had grinned broadly at her, then burst into a laugh. Belle blushed, and he said, "The _man_ you love? Brian's a little boy, dearie. A little boy who is distracted by every shiny object... stars in the sky and the gleam of silver coins. A fool boy who doesn't even know himself, much less what he wants... who follows any will-o-the-wisp to any end."

Breathless and hot with an unexpected shame that sprang up from _nowhere_ , Belle told herself that this man didn't matter. He wasn't well known to her; his opinion was of no consequence. Before she could make a reply, he startled her by saying, "You're so much better than that, dearie."

Better than... what?

Then he shamed her again, saying, "Your 'great love' is Brian's pretty face, that's all. His kiss flattered you. His withdrawal has made you his slave, wondering what is so wrong with you. You don't love the fool boy, dearie. He just played a bit of trickery on you, designed to ensnare you with your own self-doubt, thus clouding your view of his ordinariness. Pretty clever, for a foolish boy. Has your father not told you that boys can be clever on behalf of their twigs and berries?"

Belle felt stunned. And a bit mortified. Her curiosity outweighed her blushing embarrassment, and she stared at Rumpelstiltskin. He was not an ugly man, but his gaunt face and hooded eyes were nothing like Brian's prettiness. He was intimidating, in spite of a kindness that shone in his eyes.

"How did you know about the kiss?" she asked.

Smiling, just a shade reptilian, Rumpelstiltskin said, "I know magic, dearie. I can smell the trace that kiss left on you. The kiss was many times more potent than the boy, and most of that potency came from you."

Belle still felt it.

She said, "You're wrong. I love him. He beats inside of me... I feel it in my heart."

"Your heart!" Rumpelstiltskin exclaimed with open mockery. "Your heart, is it? Hearts are frivolous things; their 'knowing' is full of dreams and wishes and illusion. You're not the sort of girl who relies on her heart for knowing, Belle."

Startled once more, Belle said, "You know me?"

"Aye." Rumpelstiltskin said. "I know a great many things. I know you are Belle, I know of your father, and I know you're not a frivolous, heart-ransomed girl. I know you crave magic, but have rejected the saccharine sort practiced by your Aunties. And I know that when you know a thing, truly, you know it not in your heart, but in your _belly_." He snarled the word, showing teeth. Lifting his cane an inch and pounding it back down, he growled, "You know it in your _bones_."

His sudden burst of passion, his knowledge of her was nearly as thorough a snare as Brian's kiss. She hadn't recognized it at the time, but now... following Rumpelstiltskin dutifully through a dark forest, contemplating what to cook for his dinner... the thought hit her hard.

Was she nothing but a running, scampering rabbit, forever winding up in someone's cook-pot?

It wasn't long after their meeting that he took to calling her a crone, even a hag. He said it with such fondness, it was baffling. And yet, after Brian's rejection, Belle found it hard not to feel a little stung. Was it the reason Brian found one kiss to be more than enough, while she was left wanting? While she tasted a dark and stormy ocean, did he taste an old woman? And how was it fair to have a girl's lack of experience and naivete if, on the inside, she was already a crone?

_Rumpelstiltskin_. Ugh.

Only that morning he'd donned a brocade waistcoat that laced up the back as well as having tiny, rose shaped buttons doing up the front. Buttoning, he'd looked at her and said, "Do me up, old lady?"

Exasperated, she'd scoffed. Lacing him up, wondering over his vanity when it came to his clothes, she'd said, "Just because _you're_ old..."

He'd chuckled, turning his head only slightly so that she'd seen the bristle, the stubble on his chin, in a beam of light. His eyelashes, downcast and glinting through the fall of his hair.

"She tries to wound." he'd said.

Evidently, it didn't take. After she'd laced him, he spent the rest of the day calling her "Gorgon".

... The glossy, black cane lifted... maybe it was part wand. "Red bellied woodpecker." Rumpelstiltskin said.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That evening, candle low in its sconce, Belle fell into a reverie of lust. It was hard to track its path. She had never understood the trail... it twisted, it sprouted thorns and had waylays of charms and spells. It seemed to spring from that same shadow place as swan-armed girls and shifting crows, and was disconnected entirely from the likes of Brian.

In fact, months out from the meeting of Rumpelstiltskin, it was hard to remember... or rather to _feel_ the allure of Brian. It made Belle feel stupid to think of him, to conjure his dark eyes and pouting mouth; the baby-faced boy onto whom she'd projected and entire _ocean_ , a dark world of her own making, quite outside of anything that was authentically Brian.

He might, she reasoned, be alright. A fine sort of boy who might grow into a good man. But that had nothing to do with what she'd felt... it had all come from within herself.

Why? What was it she sought?

And what was it that drove her, now, faded as Brian was and followed by the visions of her shadow self? It seemed it was the bloodiness, itself. Her mind's eye flashed upon the richly red, jeweled insides of a pomegranate; a man's tongue, instructed by something animal, delving into a velvety fold of a persimmon. Bloody-mindedness, she thought. And she also thought, _Rumpelstiltskin's tongue_. It was an uncomfortable, fidgeting sort of thought, and swerved her into a place of simmering heat.

Outside the wind howled like many wolves, and Belle shivered. She was hot and cold. She rose from her bed and padded to the window, opening her shutter so that the night, the wind blew into her room. The moon was low and red. Her low candle flame flung wild shadows about, but did not gutter out.

Her father, as well as her brothers was not pleased that she'd taken up residence here, in Rumpelstiltskin's house. But she'd been stubborn, hungering after his magic more and more each day, taken in and somehow comforted by his blunt observations. He might tell her she did something poorly, but then he would show her how to do it better.

"He is not a man." her father said, to which she'd replied, "Well... doesn't that give you some measure of reassurance?"

It took a moment, but her father shrugged, relenting only a little. "I didn't truly fear his hands on you." he said. "I only fear that he's unnatural, not a man. And that he may take advantage of your willingness."

Apt enough, Belle thought. Rumpelstiltskin now had a maid he paid in lessons on magic.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rumpelstiltskin happened upon Belle in a mortifying moment. He found her on a large rock she'd come to like in a very secret, unspeakable way. The sun snuck through a gap in tree cover and warmed it. Part of it was lumpy, yet smooth, and she'd stumbled onto the fact that this part, warm and seemingly molten from the sun, felt lusciously and indescribably good between her legs. The lump, in its blaze of sunlight, wasn't much bigger than a saddle horn... she'd taken to sitting bare-bottomed on the warm stone, the lumpy protrusion between her straddled legs and her skirt hiding all of it.

Hands braced on the stone, she rocked herself. She'd never climaxed, not really knowing it was even a goal, but only felt the delicious feeling of the ache that intensified low in her belly, deep in her sex. She slicked the stone with wetness that shamed her, and left her puzzled as to the shame. In fact, shame _haunted_ this new discovery. She had an idea that she did something shameful; it remained shameful even in privacy, but she couldn't name it. And she couldn't stop.

It caused a profound laziness. She lost time as her mind unraveled in unexpected ways, all of her pictures and notions of lust becoming dreamy as she tried to melt herself against stone.

She didn't realize Rumpelstiltskin had arrived. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, and her pelvis did its slow rock. She was so lost in sensation, she wasn't even clear about the images moving through her mind... as with her ignorance of climax, they didn't rush towards a particular end. They meandered, encouraging her lingering laziness. Her bladder was somewhat pressing, and she found that it sharpened her pleasure, also adding a touch of panic. She contemplated getting herself into a squat over the saddle-horn-lump and rubbing against it in a different manner, and she opened her eyes.

There he was, standing right before the rock. Belle gasped and jumped a little, bruising her pubic bone against the rock. Rumpelstiltskin looked knowing and amused, his dark eyes twinkling and merry, his lips pursed. He tapped a long finger to his lips, and Belle found herself reassessing. He wasn't exactly thin-lipped... his bottom lip was a bit full. Something of a pout. His fingers caused her some distraction as well. Not enough to save any small of piece of her dignity, however.

Cocking a brow, he asked, "What on earth is going on beneath your skirt, dearie?"

Already flushed from her activity and heart pounding from his sudden presence, Belle blushed anew and couldn't begin to find words. Her legs were suggestively open beneath her skirt, bare feet dangling from the rock. Was it at all possible that he didn't know what she was doing? Was there anything she could say to explain her dreamy _rocking_?

Smiling, broad and happy, Rumpelstiltskin asked, "You couldn't find a more lively partner?"

... Oh. Hell.

"I..." Belle began. She gave up. She stared down at her lap and hoped that one or both of them would disappear. There was a spell for invisibility, she knew... but he'd not yet taught her.

He came closer. He placed his long-fingered hands on the tops of her dirty feet, then slid his hands warmly up her legs. It made Belle frightened, a wordless question forming and breaking through her embarrassment. She was also curious... Now what? What would happen, now that a fear of being caught, of being _seen_ was realized? His touch was strange, and made her feel as if he somehow approved of her foul behavior. He was... _conspiring_ with her?

Shocking her, his hands came to the tops of her legs, fingertips grazing her bare hips, her stomach. Her gasp made him lift his eyes to hers, his expression seeking; then he smiled once more when he felt the protrusion of rock.

"Clever girl." he said, his voice a soft rasp.

Looking at Belle's face, he fell into a rhythm of grazing her thighs with his fingertips, toying with her pubic hair. For moments Belle felt frozen... she felt as if her face was stuck in a round-eyed, open mouthed pose of surprise, cheeks burning. Then a light touch of his fingers to her belly brought a dismayed moan to her lips. As if a button was pushed, her eyes closed and her hips moved again. She was more slick than she'd been, rubbing against the warm stone. Another low, horrified moan issued from her throat.

"That's it, love." Rumpelstiltskin whispered.

Her eyes opened briefly, registering his approval. With it, she realized a crest of her own desire... a feeling that negated her shame and made her feel rather bold. She rocked, her worry turning to the intensity of her need to urinate.

Rumpelstiltskin took his hands from beneath her skirt and began to undo buttons at her bodice. Belle watched his fingers. She watched the tension of his brow, and his parted lips. She felt a dark confusion over her own feelings, impulses, and wondered what _he_ felt. Did he feel the same dreamlike, permissive and dangerous things she felt?

Soon she was undone to the navel. He pushed her dress from her shoulders, pulled it from her arms... he lifted it from her body, over her head. She was naked, then, her sex quite clearly pressed to its target of rock and her pelvis in its slow slide, rocking up-down, up-down.

She was young, but not a child. Her hips curved out and rounded; her breasts were full, nipples hardened in the cool air. Rumpelstiltskin skimmed the roundness of her breasts with his fingertips and lightly pinched her nipples. He leaned close, his mouth making a soft press to hers.

Belle made a quick inhale, almost jumping. Her mind couldn't even make a connection to her other kiss. As light as the touch of his lips was, it arrested her. His eyes looked at her, his motions paused, and it was _herself_ he looked at. The Belle he knew, and taught. And now he was learning her in a different way, and she wondered wildly about who he was in this arrangement. What did he think of her? What were his own desires?

He kissed her again, warm and lingering, and she tasted black tea and something sugary. She tasted something anise-like, and thought it was a residue of magic. Dipping his head, his soft hair ticklish, he kissed her breasts. He captured a nipple in his mouth and sucked, his eyes closed, a quiet murmur in his throat.

Everything he did startled and shocked Belle, making her gasp and cry out. She pressed harder to the stone, almost punishing. She wanted to release her bladder... or to somehow release some flood.

Breath heavy, a pink flush at the ridge of his cheekbones, Rumpelstiltskin said, "Come away from that bedeviled rock."

He coaxed Belle from the saddle-horn, giving a soft moan as he saw her shining, swollen sex, deeply pink, red at her opening.

... Then he _taught_ her. He showed her, first with _his_ fingers, then her own... her sex wasn't all one object, but had components. His fingers lightly tapping at her clitoris, as he named it, made her almost wild. She bodily flinched, yet wanted more. She decided it was this little nub that had driven her to the rock in the first place, but then he made a soft stroking up and down her opening, his fingers sliding in wetness, and a deep ache bloomed in Belle. Now uncertain about the demands of clitoris, she only wanted him to keep touching her there, where she opened; a pressure and a caress. She lay back on her forearms, legs wide open for Rumpelstiltskin's inspection and instruction.

His nostrils flared. He said, " _Clit_ ," then leaned forward and gave a soft lick with the tip of his tongue. Both spoken word and other acts of his tongue made Belle come undone. It was a small explosion within her, both from sensation and from the utterly unforeseen sight of Rumpelstiltskin's face so intimately between her legs. A sort of kissing commenced, Belle feeling all the while that she might die.

For a time Rumpelstiltskin's eyes were closed, dark lashes against his cheek and brow tensed in concentration. Belle squirmed and felt gasping sounds working from her throat; she felt spoke after spoke of electricity heat her blood and propel her in some way, muscles clenching and loosening, clenching again. At the same time, she was not fully in her body. A part of herself had stepped out, as neatly as though she astral travelled or shifted her shape... things she and Rumpelstiltskin had spoken of. That stepped-out part of her seemed to crouch right at her shoulder, a presence at her ear. Through it, she watched Rumpelstiltskin closely, observing all she could of him; watching the pleasure he caused in her body.

Into the shadow, the presence of Belle outside of Belle, she cast her fear. For she was afraid. When he'd first appeared, she was afraid he'd shout at her, or laugh outright at her; she feared his disgust, and that he would drag her home to her father and say what he'd seen. She was relieved he hadn't done those things, and yet now her fear lingered in the fact that he hadn't. She had not expected this turn... she had not expected him to behave this way at all, much less behave this way towards her.

She watched as his eyes opened and showed her a deep, dark intensity that made her insides trip and squeeze. Will he hurt me, she wondered? The shadow said, _he might_.

If he hurt her in that moment, it was only to shake up her perception. It was a conflict of her body feeling rapture... a dark, _bloody minded_ rapture to be naked and handled by Rumpelstiltskin, so. It seemed he understood things within herself that she didn't. Yet her lips trembled, unshed tears stood, glassy and pooled in her eyes.

For a moment, he'd stopped the deep and secret kiss, and looked at her. His hands, those strange and long fingered things, pale and enormous spiders, had soothed over her legs, her belly.

He said, "Hush, love. It's alright. You're alright."

A sob hitched in Belle's chest. Her shadow self anchored back into her body, causing a little shudder. That's when she realized her tears.

A new wave of embarrassment washed over her... that she'd been found out, that this man looked at her open, naked body. Her _wanting_ body. That he tasted, smelled her... that her scent and wetness was on his face, in his stubble. A soft, helpless keening sound came from her lips.

"Shhhhhh..." said Rumpelstiltskin. "Are you hurt?" he asked.

Belle shook her head, no.

"Are you frightened?"

She only looked at him, uncertain as to whether to admit it.

"Frightened, then." he said. "You needn't be, Belle. You're not my captive. This can stop, if you wish. You can leave... or I'll leave. I wouldn't keep you from your home and family. I wouldn't force anything on you. I only wanted to give you what you sought."

His hands still soothed her, and Belle felt yet more confusion. That he said she could leave had the odd effect of making her still and motionless. And yes, he'd found her seeking the as of yet unnamed thing he woke in her.

When she didn't move, her mind ticking in a wordless way, her eyes following the ghost-tracings of veins at his temples, he said, "Lie back, dearie."

She met his eyes, uncertain. "Lie back," he said, "Close your eyes and try only to feel what I'm doing. Breathe and relax your body... and let it release."

Belle hesitated, and he smiled at her. A smile that hid something, sly... and trying not to be sly.

"It will feel very good." he said, softly.

Wishing to escape fear and embarrassment, Belle complied. She closed her eyes. The air had cooled, as had her table-like rock, and her skin goose-bumped, her nipples painfully hard. She felt vulnerable.

Rumpelstiltskin's fingers touched between her legs again. It was a soft thing, and he spoke softly as well; a cooing, hushing, soothing speech. He told her she was pretty... that she excited him. She was aware he calmed her in a manner not unlike the way her father calmed a horse, but she didn't care. She welcomed it. She welcomed his words and his tone that made her feel special, and as if she did no wrong. She welcomed the shift in his demeanor, so that he seemed so obviously to care for her; his attitude of sarcasm, amusement had fallen away. She was caught between wanting his touch, his kiss; and wanting the more safe and familiar ground of tending his house, making his dinner.

His mouth again suckled, and this time it was thunderous inside of her. She kept her eyes closed, salt dried on the sides of her face, still wet at her ears, her hairline. Her hips rose to meet him, and - when it suddenly felt alarmingly good, a good that was a cliff, a precipice, leaving her in an agony of suspense and holding her breath - she heard him make a sound, his mouth never leaving her sex. His tongue fluttered, a butterfly thing; his lips suckled. The sound he made was a growl, and yet conveyed something like _ah-ha! I see you, now._

His hands held hard to her thighs, keeping them apart and still, and he made repeated sounds of , _"Mm, mm, mm..."_ His attention honed to her clitoris, sometimes laving over her opening with a broad, wet tongue.

On one of the long licks, Belle felt as if she broke open. Everything she'd held so tense, wondering how long it could go on, what on earth would happen?... all of it broke loose, like a wave that had grown and grown, finally crashing to shore. So loud was the crash, so bright the light in her skull, she never heard her own thrashing cries. Rumpelstiltskin sucked with wet intensity at her clitoris, then, until she unknowingly pushed him away. She rolled to her side and cried in earnest, not sure why.

Shivering, cold seeping into her as her body calmed, she pulled her crumpled dress to herself and cuddled it. Rumpelstiltskin climbed onto the rock and spooned himself to her back.

Belle welcomed his warmth; her teeth chattered with cold and with nervous fear. He wrapped himself close about her, pressing kisses to her neck until her shaking subsided. He pet her hair.

"You know, dearie," he finally said, breaking the quiet. "You're less of a crone than I'd thought." Pointing just ahead of their joining, he said, "Polyphemus moth."

　

THE END

　

 


End file.
